


Here's to the Daylight

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England's relationship with mornings. Four vignettes (colonial times, revolutionary times, world war two time, and current time).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to the Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 6, 2009. 
> 
> So fluffy it's painful. Based off "Crack the Shutters" by Snow Patrol. I AM SURE IT'LL BE VERY OBVIOUS ONCE YOU READ.

  
**I.**  
America is snuggling into him, small arms curled into the soft material of his sleeping gown, a tiny smile curling his lips upward, even in sleep. England watches him, listening to the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his small heart. His eyelids flutter, watching something in a dream that England will never know. Tiny fingers curl further into England’s sleepwear, scooting closer to him and sighing a bit in his sleep.  
  
The sun is peeking through the window now, and England knows that he needs to wake the boy up and yet doesn’t want to. He brushes his hand through his hair, slowing his hand down over the curve of his skull and down his back, keeping his touch gentle and soothing.   
  
“America,” England calls, his voice soft in the boy’s ear but loud enough to stir him from sleep.  
  
The little boy gives out a small sigh, eyelids fluttering and eyebrows knitting together as the dream leaves him. He shakes his head, mute, before burying his head against England’s chest. England lets out a small sigh and presses his hand against the little colony’s shoulders, tapping and pushing silently.  
  
America mumbles against his chest, shaking his head again and holding on stubbornly to England. England rouses him to wake again, and the boy lets out a small whine of disappointment as his bright blue eyes blink open. He looks up at his guardian with a saddened expression.   
  
“I’m sorry, lad,” England apologizes, brushing his bed-mushed hair from his face as the light from the window bathed the boy’s face in bright light. In the early morning, in the small bedroom, the boy seems to illuminate the entire room, filling it with warm light and a soft glow.   
  
“I don’t want to get up,” the boy whines. “Your bed is warm.”   
  
England does not normally let him share a bed with him, but the night before he’d been frightened by a tree’s branches scratching against his window whenever the wind blew—convinced it was ghosts, no matter how many times England had to assure him that there wasn’t that kind of magic in their house, only good magic—and he couldn’t let the boy alone to suffer and cry in his own bed.  
  
He still hasn’t let go of England’s clothing, and he looks almost pleading, as if he’d be able to convince England that going back to sleep would be okay. His eyes are sparkling in the way that always tugs at England’s heartstrings (and he often wonders if America is as aware of that as he fears) and his lips puff up in a suggestion of a pout, should the boy not get his way.   
  
So England does the logical thing, which is to kick off the blankets, hoist the boy effortlessly into his arms, and roll out of bed, satisfied at the boy’s squawk of astonishment quickly replacing to a small puff of surprised laughter.   
  
“E-England!” he cried out, squirming against his caretaker’s hold, laughing and squinting up at him, because now the sun is in his eyes. “That’s not faiiiir.”   
  
“Time to get up,” England says, trying to sound firm and only ending up sounding fond.   
  
  
  
**II.**  
He’s grateful for the rain today. He doesn’t think he can bear to see him in the sun, to see him glowing as if it was effortless. He’s grateful for the rain today. He doesn’t think that he could bear it if that boy was to see him crying like this, as much as he is.   
  
It is strange, to sit slumped over in the mud. It isn’t a position he ever would have thought he’d be in, the great empire that he is, facing up against a rebellious, foolish little colony. And yet here he is, fingers curling into the mud and chest heaving even as he tries to quiet himself, tries to convince himself that the water spilling down his cheeks is only rain and nothing else.   
  
He can’t look up. He doesn’t want to see what America’s expression is like in that moment. In his victory, England could not bear to see his happiness, see the way he glows as if the sun was shining in his hair. He couldn’t bear to see his happiness over riding himself of England.   
  
The rage boils in him, and he refuses to acknowledge the sadness he feels beneath that anger. He has lost what is rightfully his. He hates it all. He hates it all more than he can say.   
  
His hands are cold, and he wills his heart to turn cold, too.   
  
The rain falls.   
  
Somewhere, he knows that boy is shining like the sun, and he refuses to look and be blinded, refuses to even consider that he belongs to the daylight more than he belongs to him.   
  
  
  
**III.**   
This isn’t how he’d imagined it would become.   
  
America’s fingers are insistent, but not pressing too tightly. He’s tracing the scars of England’s battles, mapping them as if he will be tested on it, his brow knit in concentration as he studies England’s body so openly that England wonders if he’s meant to feel awkward or embarrassed by such inquisitiveness.   
  
There are fresh wounds now, and America’s fingers do not dig into those, but navigates around them, reverent and cautious not to harm him. He doesn’t look up from his study, doesn’t meet England’s eyes even though green eyes stare at him without wavering, watching the way the light from the early morning filters through the cracked shutters, curling into his hair so that he seems to glow, surrounded by dust motes and their shared breath.   
  
“I’m here now,” America says at last, and his blue eyes finally flicker off, looking at him, his face set in grim determination. “I’m here to help.”  
  
England works these words in his head, as if he’s never heard them before and unsure what to make of them. The rays of light from the window are strung in his hair, kissing his cheeks, as he meets England’s gaze evenly, as if he is very much aware of how much he’s wanted to hear those words, how much America’s dominated his thoughts for years now.   
  
He has to close his eyes, he has to remember to breathe.   
  
“I know,” he finally manages to say.   
  
When he opens his eyes again, the clouds outside have collected over the sun, and the room is dim and quiet again. America’s fingers are still on his chest, still exploring newly exposed skin, touch surprisingly tentative considering who the hands belong to. England seems to remember himself, and unbuttons the front of America’s shirt, slipping the crisp linen off his shoulders so it pools around his hips, before America’s foot haphazardly kicks it off the bed as he shifts closer to England, pressing him down against the pillow.   
  
America is still uncharacteristically hesitant, looking down at him, hands drifting over his scars and freshly scarred wounds, touching him like this for the first time and still unsure how it was he came to touch him like this. England isn’t as sure, either, but he also won’t question it. His fingers curl a bit into the blankets, looking up at America, waiting to see what he does.   
  
“You…” America begins, and then gives him that lopsided smile that always infuriated England yet he found endearing. “You’re really luck you get someone as awesome as me looking after ya!”   
  
England releases a long sigh, but it isn’t an angry one. He closes his eyes again, pushes himself up onto his elbows, and kisses America because this seems like the only logical way to get him to shut up. America kisses him back and the sunless day falls away.   
  
  
  
**IV.**   
The alarm goes off with a small beep before slowly rising in volume. England hates America’s alarm clock more than anything in the world and whips his hand out, trying to slam it into silence and missing, nearly sending Texas flying across the room. He hits snooze and lets out a sigh of relief, eyebrows knit together in frustration at having his dream interrupted.   
  
Curled up against him is America, face in his pillow and grunting out a small noise of frustration, as well. He’d forgotten to close the curtains from the night before, and now that he is aware of it, England cannot ignore the way the sun filters unhindered into the room, bright against his closed eyelids.   
  
America rolls over and wraps his arms around England.   
  
England stiffens up and mumbles, “Your hands are cold.”  
  
“And you’re warm,” America responds, voice distant and sleep-ridden. His face presses into England’s neck and starts kissing—his pulse, his Adam’s apple, the hollow of his neck down to his collarbone.   
  
England grunts softly and closes his eyes, but can’t relax with the sun beating into his eyes insistently. So he tilts his head towards America, burying his nose into the soft gold of his hair.   
  
This, he decides, is what makes mornings nice.  
  
England wraps his arms around America, urging him closer with a tiny smile. “Good morning.”   
  
“Wake me later,” America requests, or more demands sleepily, shifting so his head is resting against his chest, eyes closed and hands smoothing down his sides, though he’s long since memorized the curves and lines of England’s body.   
  
“I certainly hope you aren’t listening to my heartbeat,” England feels he must say, his face bright red and his throat demanding to be cleared.  
  
America shakes his head, but doesn’t lift his head from England’s chest. “No way. That’s mushy.”   
  
“… Hm,” England decides, or at least seems to agree, one hand lifting to pull through the other nation’s hair before deciding that, too, was too embarrassing. So his hand settles on the back of his neck, staying there and he has to remember to breathe when he can feel the curve of America’s smile stretch across his skin, crooked and almost goofy.


End file.
